


'Til Tomorrow

by sunnyeclipses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Caretaking, Gratuitous Descriptions of Everything Else Too, Gratuitous Descriptions of Weather, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Sharing a Bed, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Thunderstorms, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unspeakable Harry Potter, Wound healing, violin playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyeclipses/pseuds/sunnyeclipses
Summary: Harry is running from a mission gone terribly awry when he comes upon a castle in the dark, perilous Romanian forest. He doesn't expect to find Draco Malfoy inside, insistent upon nursing him back to health, even for just one night.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97





	'Til Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username/gifts).



> Blue, this one is all for you. I have to thank you for the endless hours spent talking about probably every fic I've ever tried to write with you. And for you always offering to be there for me whether it be through writing help, or anything else. I'm most particularly fond of all the late-night talks about certain fics we read that everyone else would definitely judge us for...I am confident we simply have the same brain. I am so appreciative of our friendship and so lucky to know you! Hope you enjoy this strange piece. I thought it might satisfy some of your favourite things. 
> 
> Thank you tons to Evie and Vukovich for beta-ing this odd thing.

A sharp crack of lightning shines bright and hot through the expanse of the black sky. It’s the only light Harry can see for miles; rain closer to his skin than the air is at all, robes heavy and uncomfortable on his wiry frame. The trees seem to grow taller, enclosing around him in a thick, unbreachable circle. He’s never been the claustrophobic type, but something has changed. The night is dense with the thrilling possibility of new fears. 

Harry’s hands are sliced to ribbons by the time stone walls come into view. 

He can see only a few feet in front of him; glasses plucked from his face by the insistent, inquisitive fingers of the wind. It doesn’t help that he can’t Apparate. He’s too tired and too scared to make much sense of anything at all. 

With blood curling crimson lines around his shaking fingers, he fumbles with the lock on the iron gate. His wand has been lost to the forest behind him, and Harry is reluctant to go back for it. If only Magpie had warned him that the mission could go so _wrong_. 

_Help!_ he calls into the darkness, but only a hoarse scratched noise emerges from his throat, like a cat with cut vocal cords. 

Harry finds himself finally believing in a God when the gates simply open, unlocking with a soft click that he hears by a miracle over the pounding storm. 

“Oh,” he mutters, entirely to himself, pushing forward without thought. 

He’s in a courtyard. Porcelain statues tipped on their sides, and flowering plants ripped by the root lay haphazardly across damp soil. The rosebed next to the entrance is flooded with rainwater. And up ahead, where Harry can barely see with impaired vision, there’s a castle. A large, ominous, blurry thing, with only a single light glowing yellow through an upstairs window. 

Someone is home. 

He stumbles forward toward the door before realising it, knocking fists into the wood as though his life depends on it. If the gate hadn’t locked securely behind him, Harry fears it would. 

“Please,” he mumbles, face pressed tired against the door, his weight leaning heavily into its smooth surface. His leg is injured somewhere, but he can only feel the pain thrumming through his bones and up to his spine. He can’t see anything. 

The door opens slowly, and a pair of sharp eyes peek out, just as Harry’s vision goes dark.

***

Harry’s eyes open blearily, hands pressing into something plush and soft underneath his palms. The room is lit primarily by a fire, burning golden embers at the hearth. He wants to stand up, to ascertain his surroundings like any good Unspeakable would do first. But a quick glance down reveals a bandage wrapped from his upper thigh, to just above his knee. Without thinking, he prods it experimentally with a finger and winces in response.

“Why does it fail to surprise me that you would do that?” A voice, somewhat familiar, says from the shadows. 

It takes Harry a moment before a horrifying realisation dawns upon him. 

“You—” he begins slowly. “No.” 

“Imagine my surprise,” Malfoy drawls, twirling the tip of a phoenix-feather quill between his index and middle fingers. “When Harry Potter arrives without notice and bleeds all over my doormat.” 

“Sorry,” he offers weakly. 

Harry’s breath hitches, as he can’t help but take a moment to stare. It’s the dead of night, too dark outside for any civilised wizard to be awake, but Malfoy is. Charcoal trousers cling perfectly to his slender, yet toned legs. Malfoy has a rich wine-coloured dress shirt French tucked artfully into the hem and opted to leave a good few of the buttons undone. Cobalt blue ink stains detail his hands. Harry’s eyes trail unabashedly over the length of his smooth chest. His voice catches in his throat. 

“There’s no need to apologise,” Malfoy says with a wry smile. He perches on the chocolate settee, across from Harry, and a Glencairn glass appears atop the surface of a wooden-bound book. Malfoy swirls the amber liquid around inside, giving it a tentative inhale, before placing it back down on its perch. “Although, I wouldn’t mind an explanation if there’s one you would be willing to offer.” 

Harry frowns, looking down at his empty fingers where his wand should be. It has always been, ever since his first day in Ollivander’s, a comfort of some sort. 

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Harry says, although the Ministry’s words are the ones spilling from his lips. “Official business.” 

“Ah,” Malfoy replies, knowingly. This time, he takes a sip of the whiskey, holding a hand out to offer it to Harry. 

Harry shouldn’t drink; he knows that he shouldn’t. But the gash in his thigh is throbbing, and the burn of alcohol would be a welcome distraction. He reaches out, chest tightening ever so slightly as their fingers brush at the exchange of the glass. Harry takes a sip. 

“It’s nice,” Harry says. 

“I know.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says, looking down. “For letting me in.” 

“For saving your life,” Malfoy corrects, with a soft click of his tongue. “Let’s not belittle the matter.” 

“Alright,” Harry agrees. 

And for a moment, only the crackling fire makes noises in the room, accompanied by the forced sounds of Harry’s desperate breath. His head feels tight, still leaden with stress and exhilaration. He always recalls the chase as enthralling, but this one had been too close. 

“Do you have an owl?” Harry asks. “I need to contact my supervisor.” 

“I don’t,” Malfoy says, and there’s a layer of distinct amusement in his tone that Harry doesn’t particularly like. 

Suddenly, the castle feels more confined than it had looked from the outside. 

It was no secret that Malfoy had left London soon after the war. He stayed for a while, as many Death Eaters had chosen to. To be close to the Ministry, to prove they weren’t planning on crossing another line. But, as Harry knew all too well, crimes against former members of the dark side were hardly regarded as crimes at all. London still is, and may always be, too dangerous. 

“I didn’t know you lived here,” Harry says, and while he’s talking about the castle, he means Romania, in general. 

“It seemed quiet,” Malfoy hums and then raises a delicate eyebrow. “At least, it usually is.” 

“There’s nothing around here for ages, Malfoy,” Harry says, eyes wide. Maybe he didn’t need many people, but what a lonely existence to live. The thought makes Harry’s head hurt more than it should. 

“You can call me Draco,” he says. 

Harry pauses at the gesture, as though there’s something more sinister behind it. 

“Draco,” he repeats, words foreign and acidic against his tongue as it touches the roof of his mouth. 

“Good,” Draco praises, and Harry can feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand. 

“You’re alright here, alone?” 

Draco turns away, and he seems to stiffen on the settee, eyes glazing over with apparent disinterest. If Harry knows him at all, he’ll turn the conversation back around. He’ll deflect. It doesn’t matter that they’ve spent the better part of ten years apart. That they’re both pushing thirty, and haven’t bothered to reconcile because it just doesn’t matter anymore. 

Harry knows him; he always will. 

“How is London?” Draco asks. 

_They forced you into hiding_ , Harry wants to say aloud, but he doesn’t because he’s barely known _this_ Draco for long at all. And he bears no place in his life to make such a calculated observation. 

“Do you like it here?” Harry queries instead. 

Draco seems to linger on the question for a few moments, but he ultimately chooses not to answer. His lips close, pressing thin and hard into a tight line. A strand of white-blond hair falls from behind his ear, draping gently in front of his right eye. Harry has a sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and push it away. To run the flat of his thumb down the sharp edge of Draco’s cheekbone, following the line of his nose, to part pink lips with a single, gentle push. 

“I don’t dislike it,” Draco eventually offers, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into a dry smile. “I like to think I’m independent.” 

Conversations with Draco used to feel like double Potions on a Monday afternoon. Somehow, now, it is a bit more like Quidditch practice. Achingly intoxicating. Harry shifts his weight unconsciously, and the pristine white of the bandage stains too quickly in red. 

“Ah,” he gasps abruptly, knuckles whitening as his hands close into fists. 

“Careful,” Draco chides. Without prompting, he moves forward. 

Harry notices as he crosses the short distance between them that he seems to float over. Light on his feet, like he’d rather disappear altogether into the floorboards. 

“Can I ask how you did this?” Draco narrows his eyes. “Or is that...classified.” 

Harry winces as Draco begins to unwrap the bandages. It’s only then that he notices he isn’t wearing his trousers. Embarrassment blooms in the form of a rosy blush across his cheeks. He leans his head back, hoping Draco cannot see. 

“A particularly nasty hex, I suppose,” Harry says, resting his head back into his hands. “Usually, I can block, but I lost my wand out there.” 

He falters as he thinks about it.

“Pity,” Draco says, removing his own wand from his boot. It isn’t the same one that Harry had given him back after the trials. Draco seems to notice the surprise. “Ten-inch vine wood, thestral tail hair.” 

“That’s interesting,” Harry says slowly.

“It’s uncommon,” Draco corrects. 

Harry doesn’t know much about vine wood, though he remembers reading something in the Department of Mysteries about the types of people that possessed these wands. The Druids believed that only those with a larger purpose, a hidden depth were capable of using such an instrument. 

“I sent you back your wand, you know?” Harry asks. _The real one _.__

__He curses softly, as Draco dabs something that smells like Dittany over the raised ridges of the open wound. Harry doesn’t want to look, because, despite all of the blood and war and death in his life, he still gets a bit queasy._ _

__“I know,” Draco says, as he begins to unwrap a fresh bandage. “I felt like it was time for a change.”_ _

__Throughout his life, Harry had realised that things always come to him a bit backwards, and then he has to sort them out, like puzzle pieces impatiently waiting to be slotted into their rightful places. Draco feels like that in a way. All twisted up inside for too many good reasons, in need of someone to tell him that he’s fine. That he’s allowed to be the way that he is, there’s no need to hide._ _

__“Your wound will heal faster if you rest tonight,” Draco says._ _

__The violent echoes of the storm outside, and towering black locust trees beating loud against the windows, don’t offer any opposing contradiction as to why Harry shouldn’t stay the night. Draco, eventually, helps him from the couch. The whole display, his arms wrapped up in Draco’s, warm sides pressed tight to one another, is unnecessarily cruel to Harry’s sensibilities. He doesn’t need to feel like this. It has been a while since someone has taken care of him, Harry reminds himself. He mustn’t confuse simple courtesy for consideration. And Harry knows all of the training; all of the muscle he has put on through exercise isn’t light. Draco doesn’t complain once as he holds him._ _

__They reach a master bedroom upstairs, and the bed is unmade as though someone had sprung awake and thrown the covers away. A candle burnt to the bottom of its wick still casts a soft, romantic shadow over the room._ _

__Draco helps him underneath the covers, and Harry shivers as the cold linens touch bare skin._ _

__“Is this your room?” Harry asks. His eyes remain stagnant on a portrait of Draco, at a young age, and Narcissa—bright smiles echoing millions of memories across their faces._ _

__Draco nods, circling the bed to the other side. Harry isn’t sure why he’s so surprised when Draco climbs in. He’s confident the castle, the gratuitously large structure, has plenty of spare bedrooms. But, maybe Draco doesn’t trust him. That’s okay._ _

__“Sleep,” Draco says. He slides on a pair of wire-framed glasses, Summoning a book from a shelf across the room._ _

__Harry is too exhausted to argue. He falls asleep without much thought, to the sound of Draco reading aloud into the silence of the room._ _

____

***

There’s music coming from somewhere beyond the walls.

Harry is sure he has never heard a violin play before in person, but he knows this is it. The sweet, gentle press of bow against string. It’s a graceful sound. He’s taking Draco’s glasses from the bedside table before he can think, and the frames are a bit tight on his wider set face. At least he can see something now. 

He follows the sound through the corridor, before realising his leg has healed overnight. Draco must have applied more Dittany, or cast some healing spells. Through another passageway, Harry searches for the music, before coming upon the door of a small study. 

Bookshelves climb high like ivy across the walls, a rosewood desk placed in the middle of the room sits atop a faded, ornate rug. There’s a delicate, wilted rose, floating inside of a bell jar just on the surface. 

“It’s dying,” Harry observes quietly. 

Draco turns around, his violin falling from his shoulder, landing parallel to his legs. 

“It’s early,” he says, nodding his head to the grandfather clock by the doorway. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

“I heard the music,” Harry says. His eyes trace over the elegant curves of the violin. It’s beautiful in Draco’s hands. 

“I apologise for waking you then,” Draco says. He places the instrument gingerly on the desk and steps away as though the distance makes a difference. 

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “You play well.” 

“I would be confused if I didn’t,” Draco remarks, coming around from behind the desk to stand in front of Harry. “I’ve studied violin since I was a child.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, thoughts leaving his mind as Draco breathes out, fresh, minty against his face. “The rose.” 

Draco turns his head. “It was a gift.” 

“There are charms, you know,” Harry says carefully. “To keep it alive, if it means something to you.”

“That’s not how it works,” Draco says, with a miserable sort of smile that makes Harry’s stomach turn. 

Harry steps around Draco, following his interest to the bay windows at the far side of the study. He surveys the damage from the storm the night before. Black and angry clouds still roll across the sky, heavy with leftover rain that they’re sure to spill at any moment. The courtyard is a wreck; nothing seems to be in the right place. 

“You’re wearing my glasses,” Draco says. 

“I couldn’t see.” 

There’s a pause as Draco clears his throat. “Do you want anything to eat?”

Harry thinks about it for a moment. And while he’s usually ravenous in the morning time, he feels nothing but a slight, disinterested twinge from his stomach—thoughts of the night before still rattle around his head like loose marbles. A part of him desires to crawl back into bed. To rest his aching joints and pretend he hadn’t lost his partner in the violent exchange. But there’s Draco, in front of him, with eyes that are shining too beautiful to be considered something so drab as grey. Draco who cleans his wounds and offers him breakfast. Who lives in a big castle, all by himself. 

“I need to head home,” Harry says. The statement is spoken softly but registers as all too loud in the small space. He’s taken aback at how unwilling it sounds. 

“Would it be strange if I asked you to stay?” Draco asks, and when Harry looks at him, he’s twirling a quill between his fingers like he had been in the evening before. A nervous habit, perhaps. 

Harry shakes his head, a mirthless laugh escaping from his throat. “A bit.” 

By the time Harry has dressed and examined the now practically non-existent wound on his leg, Draco is playing in the study. Harry can imagine what it looks like. His delicate, thin-skinned fingers pressing into the strings leaving long crescent-shaped red indents into the pads of his fingertips, the violin crooning at his touch. The way Draco plays makes Harry feel like he’s walked into a large cathedral of some kind. He imagines stained glass windows wet with mist, and the gentle swell of music in his chest as he listens to notes ring out in the crisp, unfettered air. 

He climbs down the spiralling staircase, wondering how on earth Draco had managed to drag him up its steep incline last night. The man is clearly much stronger than he looks. When he reaches the landing, there’s a window cracked open slightly, then the unmistakable sound of a pecking beak against the glass, as a snowy owl, pristine and white despite the weather, gracefully enters. 

“I thought you didn’t have an owl,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow, as Draco follows down the stairs behind him. 

He offers only a coy smile, edging past Harry to collect the creature in his arms. 

“She’s not really mine,” Draco says, using two fingers to stroke between her eyes and down to her tailfeathers. She nuzzles happily into Draco’s chest, and Harry finds himself sitting with the horrific realisation that he wishes that were him. 

He shakes himself from the thought at once. 

“Thank you again,” Harry says, making for the door. 

“There’s no need to thank me so many times,” Draco says smoothly, catching the wood in one hand as Harry struggles with its heavy weight. “I was merely returning the favour, Harry.”

He can’t help but shiver at the way Draco says his name, effortlessly as though he’s been saying it his whole life. 

As Harry exits into the garden, there’s a nagging, pulling feeling in his stomach. Like he wants to turn around. To run back into the safety of the house, and sit by the warm fire, listening to Draco play until his fingers are red and raw and they’re laughing at the absurdity of it all. He frowns, piercing air cutting into his cheeks. It feels so cold, like it might snow.

“Wait,” Harry calls abruptly, spinning on his heel. 

The door is still open, and the owl rests delicately on Draco’s shoulder as they watch him leave. 

“Yes?” Draco asks. 

“Write to me, will you?” Harry asks, though he curses himself for it sounds pleading, and entirely too desperate. 

Draco inhales, and when he lets out his breath, it’s misty and visible in the winter air. “Come back soon.” 

Harry grins, and though Draco doesn’t return the gesture, he knows it has been felt. As he walks forward, leaves and plants crunching underneath the treads of his work boots, a sense of relief seems to crash through his body like a wave. Once he’s passed the gates, the lock clicking shut behind him, he finally lets out the breath he’d been holding on to. 

Harry Apparates home, knowing that he’ll be back to the mysterious castle, if anything, to hear Draco play just one more time.


End file.
